


Caught Me Under False Pretences

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fight Sex, Handcuffs, Hunter Training, M/M, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-15
Updated: 2007-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't know it, but he's just let himself in for one hell of a training session.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught Me Under False Pretences

"God _damn_ it, Dean, you get your ass back over here _right now_!"

Dean pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder. Sam's laid out across his bed, shirtless, jeans half-undone. He's hard and flushed and pissed as _hell_ , eyes shooting daggers at Dean through the tousled mass of his hair. He's the exact picture of debauched innocence, right down to the police-issue handcuffs glinting around his wrists. Except Sam's never really been innocent, and Dean knows that if those cuffs weren't currently keeping Sam chained to the headboard he'd be in serious danger of getting a couple of cracked ribs. Sam's kind of rough when he gets riled.

"Language, Sammy," he says, managing a smirk. "Dad'll wash your mouth out if he hears you talking like that."

"Dean!" Sam yanks at the cuffs, hissing as they cut into the skin of his wrists. "Get me the hell out of these and _fuck me_."

Dean feels the demand hit him like a sucker punch, driving all the breath from him. Sam's never said that out loud before, never even implied—

He covers his reaction as well as he can, slapping a hand to his chest in fake shock as he turns around.

"That an order, little brother?"

"Hell, yes," Sam shoots back, looking him squarely in the eye. "I'll spell it out, if you like: unlock these cuffs, you fucking tease. Now."

Sam's gaze bores into him, burning hot with anger and lust and command, and Dean's knees actually weaken. It takes everything he's got to resist, keep the grin on his face as he walks back over to the bed. His cock rubs against the zipper of his jeans with every step, but he ignores it. He's gotta keep control here. Gotta keep the upper hand.

Sam relaxes a little as he draws closer, thinking he's won. His mouth loses its hard edge and his eyes soften just a bit when he speaks.

"C'mon, man, these things're tight."

He rattles the cuffs and turns his wrists around so the lock faces up. Dean puts one knee on the bed and leans in, dipping into his left jeans pocket. Sam arches up, and Dean can't resist a kiss, deep and wet, biting down on Sam's lower lip when they part.

"Dean," Sam breathes, eyes darkening. He licks his lips, and Dean swallows hard at the sight of that clever pink tongue.

"I've got something for you, Sammy," he says, closing his fingers tight and bringing his hand out of his pocket.

"I can see that, Dean."

Sam's smirk when he eyes Dean's erection is Dean's own, stolen and modified; it's a turn-on Dean wants to deny but can't. He flashes his teeth and opens one of Sam's clenched fists, kissing and nuzzling his way up Sam's neck as he does so. Distracted, Sam angles his head up to see what Dean's giving him, inadvertently giving Dean more access to his neck. Sam's neck is one of his biggest erogenous zones, and Dean takes shameless advantage of the diversion.

By the time Sam realises what he's holding, Dean is out of the room and heading for the stairs, well out of the line of fire.

" _DEAN!_ "

Sam's outrage echoes down the hall. Dean lets himself enjoy a moment of satisfaction as he goes out to the back porch to wait.

**EARLIER:**

"Dean, what—"

He shuts Sam up with a kiss, deep and dirty. It doesn't take long; kissing's still pretty new for them, and for Sam especially. Dean puts a lot of tongue into it and waits until he feels Sam sprout wood; then he pulls back and reaches for the handcuffs lying abandoned on the kitchen table, where Sam threw them in disgust half an hour ago. Dean dangles them thoughtfully from one finger, then raises an eyebrow in Sam's direction and heads upstairs toward their bedroom.

There's silence behind him for a long moment, and then Sam's right behind him, his voice dropping a full octave when he speaks.

"Oh, hell _yes_."

Dean smirks over his shoulder in reply and takes the stairs two at a time, thanking God that Dad's away until Sunday. Sam's been shirking his non-combat training lately, and it's Dean's job to make sure he can pick a lock or hack an online database when he needs to. He's been trying to get Sam to practice unlocking the handcuffs all day with no success, and a while ago the idea occurred to him: maybe Sam just needs the right motivation.

He doesn't know it, but he's just let himself in for one hell of a training session.

Sam's half out of his clothes by the time they reach the bedroom. Dean puts the cuffs on the bedside table and hurries to catch up. He's down to jeans and socks when Sam sprawls naked across the bed, one arm over his head gripping the brass bedhead.

"Hurry up," Sam says, his voice thick. He's got one finger in his mouth, looking at Dean with hooded eyes and a slight smile, and he's _so fucking hot_ Dean almost loses it right then.

"Hold your horses," he mutters, trying for cool and failing miserably when he gets tangled in his jeans. Sam grins wider and moves his hand down to his cock, jacking himself slowly.

"Holdin' something else right now."

Oh, he's going to pay for that, Dean thinks. He loves to watch Sam jerk off, and Sam knows it; it's how this whole thing between them started in the first place. Looking at him now, it's tempting to forget his plan and lose himself in Sam for the rest of the day, but Dean knows it'll be worth the payoff if he does this right.

He finishes stripping and picks up the cuffs, straddling Sam's hips. Sam stops touching himself as soon as Dean's within reach, smoothing his hand down Dean's chest instead. The calluses on his fingers raise Dean's nipples to hard points and bring him out in gooseflesh all across his back and stomach when Sam reaches for his cock. Sam's hands feature in most of Dean's jerk-off fantasies; Sam knows this, and is shameless in his abuse of Dean's weakness. Sometimes Dean gets hard just from looking at Sam handling a weapon.

He ignores the current of sensation running through him from Sam's hand on his cock and opens one cuff, fitting it around Sam's left wrist where he grips the bedhead. The metal makes a quiet snicking sound when it locks, and a visible shiver runs through Sam's body. Dean grins and slides his hand down Sam's other arm, tangling their fingers together on his cock and then pulling it up over Sam's head. He threads the cuffs behind the centre rail of the bed and closes the other around Sam's right hand.

"Feel okay?" he asks. "Not hurting?"

"It's – I'm good." Sam tests the cuffs, then grips the rails closest to his hands and takes a deep breath. "I ... kinda like it."

His slow smile is edged with challenge, and Dean's gut twists with want.

"Always suspected you were kinky."

"Your idea, dude," Sam points out. He wets his lips and looks at Dean through half-lidded eyes. "Now that you've got me here, what're you gonna do with me?"

Dean slides back until he's hovering over Sam's cock, letting it brush against his ass. Hands on Sam's chest for balance, thighs straining, he stays there for a long moment. Sam's eyes go wide.

"Oh, you fucker. Don't you _dare_ ," he growls. "Not when I can't touch you."

Sam twists under him, glaring, and Dean can't resist another grin.

"Remember this morning, Sam? When I was trying to teach you how to undo these cuffs without a key, and you wouldn't listen and locked me out of the living room so you could watch TV?" He rocks back and forth, watching a flush of red rise over Sam's chest and neck. "Dad's expecting you to know how to free yourself by the time he gets back. And I'm not gonna unlock you, so you better figure it out if you don't want to be stuck like this."

Dean slides down Sam's body and sucks his cock deep before Sam can speak. He holds it there for two heartbeats, swallowing hard; then he pulls off and rolls to his feet, looking down at Sam trapped on the bed. Sam's quivering with tension, and his wrists are chafing against the steel cuffs.

"What the – Dean, where the hell are you going?"

"Me? I'm going outside for a smoke, and then I'm gonna watch the game." Dean flicks a glance at Sam, not meeting his eyes. "You feel free to join me whenever you're done there."

Sam gapes at him for a second before he gets it; then his eyes narrow to slits and he bares his teeth and _growls_.

"Dean, don't you fucking _dare_ leave me here. You can't – what if Dad comes home early? What if Pastor Jim comes by? What if we get _attacked_ by something, for crying out loud?"

"Fine points all, Sammy." Dean steps into his jeans and zips them up, not bothering with the button. "Guess you should hurry up then, huh?"

"I'm going to kill you." Sam's voice is so low Dean can hardly hear him. "I'm going to fuck you into the ground and not let you come, and then I'm going to kill you and make it look like an accident. I swear to God, Dean."

He's straining against the cuffs so hard Dean can see the skin tearing; he wants to cry off, but he's never seen Sam so angry, and ... well, hell. It's the hottest damn thing he's ever seen. Dean's hard as a rock, and Sam's cock is wet and red, standing up straight from his belly; and if he doesn't get out of here right now he's going to give in and suck that cock and fuck himself on it until they're both screaming, and that'll be incredible but it won't prove his point.

So he grins at Sam and says, "Never knew you could be such a sweet talker, little brother," and walks toward the door.

"Dean! _Dean!_ You haven't – how the hell am I supposed to get free, huh? Should I just dislocate my fucking thumbs? C'mon, man, at least give me something to work with."

Dean pauses in the doorway, his back to Sam, and waits. He doesn't want Sam to beg; he wants him to _demand_. He's not into subjugation.

"Damn it, Dean, you get your ass back over here _right now_!"

That's better.

**NOW:**

Dean wishes he'd thought to bring a shirt or something outside. It's not cold yet, but the sun's going down and October in Iowa isn't exactly sunscreen weather. He's not allowed to smoke inside, though – Dad's orders – so he tucks his cigarette into a corner of his mouth and hugs his chest while he smokes. He can't hear anything from upstairs, but that doesn't mean much; Sam could be lying there sulking, or he could be free already and going through their weapons bag, looking to make good on his threat. He might be sneaking up on Dean right now—

A hand snakes around his neck from behind, pulling him off-balance. Dean stumbles back into Sam's body and feels the stinging burn of his cigarette as it tumbles down his arm to the ground. Sam's arm is tight around his throat, not quite cutting off his air.

"A paperclip? A fucking _paperclip_? Not funny, Dean," Sam grinds out. "Not funny at all."

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Dean pants. He puts his hand up to cover Sam's arm, pulling a little to get more breath.

"You would if I let you." Sam shoves him away hard, toward the stairs leading to the yard. Dean's foot catches on the bottom riser; Sam grabs him roughly and swings him around, and he fetches up chest-first against the porch decking.

"Hey, Sammy, c'mon. Ease up a little, will you?"

Dean tries to push away and can't; Sam's crowded up close behind him, pinning him. He's got one hand pushing Dean's face into the wooden post supporting the porch, and holy crap, Dean thinks, Sam's still _naked_.

"Ease up?" Sam's hot breath rushes past his ear. "Sure, I'll ease up. I'll ease up the way you did when you left me _chained to a fucking bed_."

"You didn't leave me much choice," Dean argues. "You gotta pay attention when I'm teaching you this stuff, Sam. I'm not doing it for fun, you know – okay, well, today was kind of fun, but still. It's important. You need to know how to free yourself if you get picked up by the cops."

"Well, now I know. Obviously, I _was_ paying attention." Sam grips Dean's hair and pulls his head back, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "You need to stop underestimating me, Dean."

He sounds so smug, so confident, it's like a red flag to Dean's ego. He lets himself relax in Sam's hold – not much, just a slight give in his muscles. Sam grins against his neck, arms loosening, and Dean uses the moment to shove backward as hard as he can, grinding his bare heel against Sam's instep. Sam staggers back with a curse; Dean turns to face him, his guard up and ready.

"Oh, you're _on_ ," Sam breathes.

He drops into a fighting stance; Dean follows suit, watching for an opening, his blood flowing fast and hot. There's no more talking. Words are wasted breath in a fight: sounds are limited to grunts of effort or impact and the shuffle of their feet through the grass. Dean can't keep the smile off his face; he's been itching to get Sam alone like this, no holds barred, ever since the cast came off Sam's broken wrist a month ago. Sam's eyes are gleaming green, narrow and catlike, his movements lithe and smooth as they circle each other in the yard.

They trade a few glancing blows, no more than sparring; then Dean lands a jab to Sam's ribs almost by accident, and suddenly all bets are off. Sam's coming at him on all sides: left hook, uppercut, elbow to the throat, and it's all Dean can do to keep his footing under the onslaught. Then he finds his opening and gets Sam with a quick two-punch combination, following up with a straight front kick while Sam's still bent over, and that's enough to put him on the ground. Down doesn't mean out, though: Dean feels Sam's foot hook around his ankle just too late, and a second later he's falling onto Sam's chest, hips nestled between his brother's spread thighs. They're both breathing heavily, fresh bruises reddening Sam's eye and Dean's jaw, split knuckles and eyebrows oozing blood. Their cocks are lined up hard against each other, and Sam moans deep in his throat when Dean pins his hands to the ground by his shoulders and grinds his hips in a slow circle.

"Say 'uncle'," Dean says, licking a stripe up Sam's sweat-slick chest.

"Fuck you," Sam spits, and tries to buck him off. The movement makes their cocks slide together; a shudder ripples through both of them, and Dean feels the zipper on his jeans begin to part.

"Sweet of you to ask," he replies, "but I don't think you've earned it. I've got another idea, though—"

Dean gets his legs under him and straddles Sam's chest, knees replacing his hands to keep Sam's arms pinned. He holds the tab of his zipper between thumb and forefinger and tilts his hips toward Sam's face.

"Why don't you get this open and suck me off instead?"

He expects Sam to buck him off this time, given his shift in position; he's braced for it, ready to roll and bring Sam with him and start the whole thing over again.

He _doesn't_ expect Sam to meet his gaze with a slow, fuck-me smile and arch his neck, taking the tab of the zipper between his teeth.

Sam drags the tab down slowly, tucking his chin into his neck to get it all the way open. His hair brushes against Dean's cock with a feather light touch, spawning thoughts of how it would feel to jerk off into the shiny mass and whether Sam would let him; before Dean can ask, Sam's looking up at him and stretching forward, trying to get Dean's cock in his mouth, and Dean ceases to think about anything but helping him reach that vitally important goal. He shifts forward a few more inches, pushing denim out of the way; Sam's tongue catches on the head of his cock, curls around, and then he's halfway down Sam's throat and trying not to choke him, and Sam's making small mewling sounds and trying to suck him deeper, and this is going to be over embarrassingly fast if he doesn't do something.

Dean tries to pull back a little, make it last, because he wants to _remember_ this – but Sam's not having any of it. He threatens Dean with a glare and a not-gentle scrape of teeth when Dean moves away, and it's an indication of just how far gone Dean is that the idea of Sam biting him isn't so much a worry as a turn-on. He stops moving, concentrates on balancing and on not shooting his load down Sam's throat in the next thirty seconds, but it's hard with Sam writhing under him, breathing hard and trying to free his hands, his tongue all over Dean's cock and his lips stretched wide around its girth, pink and shiny with spit. Dean closes his eyes, but that just makes it worse; he can feel everything, his entire sensory system focused on the friction and suction of his cock in Sam's mouth. It's only a minute or so before he's giving up, caving in, opening his eyes and trying to warn Sam so he can pull off, but Sam shakes his head and stays where he is, swallowing down every last drop as Dean quakes and shudders above him.

He slumps back and falls to the ground beside Sam, feeling like his bones have melted. Sam's mouth, _God_ ; if Sam's hands are his favourite fantasy material, Sam's mouth is rapidly becoming his sexual home away from home. Dean throws an arm over his eyes and tries to slow his breathing, his entire body tingling with aftershocks.

After a minute he looks over at Sam. He's lying on his side watching Dean, a slight smile playing around his mouth and one hand curled around his cock. Dean's cock tries valiantly to rise at the sight, but he figures he can't be blamed for not managing it, given the spectacularly awesome orgasm he's still getting over.

"Let me help you with that," he says, and rolls closer. Sam lets him take over, draping his arm over Dean's hip and walking two fingers up and down the crease in Dean's ass. That question's going to come up again soon, Dean can tell. He looks forward to it. In the meantime, though—

He jerks Sam off slow and rough, harder than usual, his grip not quite a punishment. Sam's flat on his back and arching under his touch in no time flat, his hands digging into the ground for support. Dean leans over and flicks his tongue out to taste Sam's pre-come; he suckles the head of his cock as he jerks him off, soft and gentle in contrast to his hand, and Sam might be a master of the sexual mindfuck but he's only seventeen, so his control is for shit. Dean pulls away when he sees Sam's balls tighten and watches him come, shaking apart for the smallest of moments in Dean's hand.

"Bastard," Sam pants a moment later.

"Fucker."

Dean smiles up at the evening sky and breathes in deep. He feels pretty good right about now. Sam learned his lesson, and they both got laid: a good day, all in all.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hm?"

"Remember when Dad taught you how to get out of those handcuffs a couple of years ago? And he said I didn't need to know yet because I wasn't old enough to hunt anyway?"

"Yeah." Dean looks over at Sam, sees the smug grin reappear on his face. "So?"

"I figured out how to pick the lock about a day after you did." Sam's teeth flash white in the twilight. "So thanks for today's lesson, and all – I sure do appreciate it – but you really didn't have to bother."

By the time Dean's thought of all the names he's going to call him, Sam's already on his feet and disappearing inside, his laughter filtering out through the door.

"Dead. He's a dead man," Dean says aloud, and charges up the back stairs.

END


End file.
